Independence
by ally.enchantress
Summary: When Olivia goes to see a therapist for the first time, the therapist wasn't a prop. She had an opinion, too. "Understanding can't curl up in bed with you and keep you safe, that's up to you." Thanks for the quote, ShaNini86!
1. Meeting

**I know I've been out of the goings on for a while, but I'm calling myself back now. YAY! Studying for Finals sucks a LOT!**

**Anyway, this is my latest. I was watching Trials tonight and this just kinda sorta came to me. Basically, it's Olivia's first session from her therapist's point of view. I hope you like it!**

**Disclaimer: Since nobody bothered to put the therapist's thoughts on the show, I am proud to say that I own them. Unfortunately, Olivia is still Dick Wolf's and Mariska Hargitay's.**

**______________________________________________________________________________**

She didn't strike me as one who asked for help. From the first time I saw her, just sitting in my waiting room, wringing her hands with nerves, looking for all the world like she just wanted to bolt out the door, I realized that she was psychologically wired to be completely and utterly independent. That conviction only strengthened when I actually got to talk to her and found out she was a cop. A sex crimes detective, to be precise.

Dear Lord, how was I supposed to take that? I was surprised she'd even come in the first place.

From the moment she sat down, she never stopped playing with her fingers, bouncing up and down a little, shaking her short hair out of her face. I'd dealt with a cop or two in my career. To be honest, they weren't all that uncommon. All it took was the right hostage situation, misplaced trust, or something else equally mundane.

Never before had I encountered, cop or not, a woman so stubbornly insistent on taking care of herself.

In this job, I became acquainted with not only the victim but also the rapist. As disgusting as it made me feel, I had become able to see in a victim what the rapist would have been enticed to. In Olivia Benson, it was her beauty and the obvious threat she posed. She was sitting four feet away from me and I could feel the danger radiating from her. Everything about her seemed to be used to exuding self-confidence, and I could see just by looking at her that she would be ready to take out anyone that stood in her way from a peaceful existence. The rapist would have been drawn in by her fearlessness.

I'd seen that on her necklace.

Fearless.

I could only imagine how shattered her confidence had been. She must have been left questioning every aspect of herself, even the ones she'd never ever thought about before. She'd be wondering about everything from the clothes she wore to the way she interacted with others to the color of her eyes. Anything she could think of that might have led this guard to choose her.

"I was…okay at first, but then…I've started…" I watched, as detached as possible, while she struggled for words to express these occurrences, certainly so foreign to her, "reliving it. I can't sleep…" I listened as she described what was happening to her. She continued fiddling with her hands before her, weaving around constantly, clearly very uncomfortable. She looked about two seconds from jumping out of the window to escape. It was blatantly obvious that she hated shrinks.

"Olivia," I said, trying to keep her here, "you know it's very common for rape victims to blame themselves."

"I know," she practically interrupted, "I know. I know that here." She put a finger to her temple like she had a headache. She must never have felt this lost or self-conscious in her life. "I wasn't even raped," she finished.

So that was what this was about. She told rape victims every day that she understood how they felt, how she knew what was best for them. But, inside, she was thinking that she didn't have the right to tell an actual rape victim what was best for her when she didn't even know how they felt. But she was wrong. She did know how they felt. Maybe not completely, but she'd experienced enough to have earned her right to give them the help they needed. Hell, she'd probably be a more successful therapist than I was if she wanted to be.

What she needed to do before she could heal was let herself feel. She knew everything that was going on inside her, she knew exactly what was happening to her. The problem was that she thought, because she knew the mechanics of the feelings, she could either speed up the process or skip it altogether.

That wasn't how it worked. She'd realized that, and now she was beating herself up over the combined decision that she was out of control for what was probably the first time in her life, and she couldn't help herself.

What she needed to realize was that she needed to accept herself and her situation before she could help herself.

Something told me that teaching her this lesson was going to take a lot more effort than I'd ever put forward for a single victim.

Step One would be acquainting her with the fact that she was a victim.

It was something I was not looking forward to in the least.

**______________________________________________________________________________**

**I know, it was kinda short, but it was amusing to write. What can I say? I was feeling empathetic.**

**Reviews are like donuts! They make me happy! Donut-shaped reviews proved a flop, although there were some valiant tries, so how about a long john pastry-shaped review! Hint: it looks like a paragraph!**

**~ally**


	2. Understanding

**As usual, I find myself incapable of leaving something a oneshot. So, here's another chapter to muse over. It's definitely longer than the first one, mostly because that was an introductory session, getting the two used to each other. I've got a lot more juice in this one, and I'm rather proud of it. So, read, review, and make me happy!**

**Disclaimer: Well, Dick Wolf came to my house last night with legal documents in his hand. I got all excited, thinking he was signing over the rights to SVU. I mean, that's what you think when DW shows up at your place of residence with papers of legality, right? Well, they turned out to be restraining orders keeping me from staring into his bedroom window at night. So, until that expires, I shall keep my stalking to threatening emails.**

**_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________**

Today was the day I'd been preparing for since she'd left a week ago. Today, Olivia Benson was coming back for a second session. At least, I hoped that was what she was doing. I was operating under the assumption that she would actually listen to me.

Who was I kidding? I had absolutely no idea if she was coming back or not. However, I had planned out exactly what I wanted her to accept today. With Olivia, just letting her talk about what she wanted to talk about would not work. She'd sit there in silence for an hour. So, I'd start the conversation with the lesson I wanted to impress upon her and see what happened.

"Dr. Clare?" my secretary interrupted my musings. "Olivia wants to talk to you."

Really? She was here? And on time, too. Impressive. "Thank you, Marin. Tell her I'm ready when she is."

"Yes, Doctor." Marin popped her head out and I heard her tell Olivia I'd see her now. Damn it, Marin, say what I told you to say! The whole point was to let Olivia start the talk on her own terms.

There she was, awkward and formal, like she wanted to be anywhere but here. Well, almost anywhere. I smiled in welcome. "Hello, Olivia. How've you been?"

A slight shrug of the shoulders. She approached the couch and stood uncomfortably beside it, like she didn't want to sit down.

"Would you like to sit here?" I asked, offering her my chair.

Wide brown eyes hardened. "No, thank you, doctor." She sank into the cushions and sat straight-backed against the creamy suede.

"Olivia," I said, getting slightly more comfortable in my chair, "Do you know what's happening to you?"

White teeth chewed shortly on her lips, and the brown eyes rolled around the room. She was trying very hard to remain professional. "Yes, doctor."

I would make my point, I just needed a little lead-in. "What is it that is happening to you, Olivia?" I asked, hoping for a straight answer.

"I believe we discussed this last week, didn't we, doctor?" she asked politely. So much for my hope.

"Yes, Olivia, but I need to hear it again. In your words, please."

Would what I was going to say get rid of her nonchalant demeanor? I'd say hopefully, but my hopes had already been dashed once.

She sighed. "I am experiencing the crisis or acute stage of rape trauma syndrome, which is a form of PTSD. In rape trauma syndrome, one experiences flashbacks that can last anywhere from minutes to days at a time. One would have sleep deprivation brought on by frequent nightmares reliving the traumatic event. One tries to avoid thinking about it, feels emotionally numb, experiences memory problems, avoids activities once enjoyed, feels a hopelessness about the future, has trouble concentrating, and discovers difficulty maintaining close relationships. One also feels irritability or anger, overwhelming guilt or shame," her fingers started vibrating like she had Parkinson's, "trouble sleeping, is easily startled or frightened, and sometimes hears or sees things that aren't there."

An almost frantic look entered those coffee-colored eyes as she came very close to pleading with me. "I know everything about what's going on inside me, doctor. I can cite statistics and facts for an hour that describe a million victims with these very symptoms. I can name at least fifteen times when I've had to this year alone. I can tell you with ninety nine percent certainty who does and who does not have PTSD just by watching them for five minutes. And I can tell you exactly why they're feeling the way they're feeling! I know," she took a breath, "everything," another one, "there is to know," another one, "about this, doctor!" She was on the verge of a mental breakdown. I could see it in her hands, the way they shook slightly. In her muscles, the way they twitched constantly. In her eyes, the way they jumped out of their sockets with the passion she was feeling.

And she'd played right into my trap, so to speak. "Olivia," I said, "I know that. But…does the fact that you know everything there is to know about this…keep you from feeling it?" Her whole body trembled violently as she met my eyes. For one split second, I thought I saw terror.

Then there was nothing but a solitary, sparkling tear trickling down her cheek. She blinked rapidly, releasing another drop of liquid, and her poise crumbled under my gaze. Breathing shakily, she slumped against the cushions, utterly defeated.

I knew why, too. I'd just proved to her that she was not in control. I'd just proved to her that she was no different from the victims she saw every day, and I was terrified that she would hate me for it.

"See, Olivia, understanding can't curl up in bed with you at night and keep you safe. Understanding what's happening isn't your Get-Out-of-Jail-Free Card. Just because you know something doesn't mean you'll never experience it. Recognizing that this could happen to anyone doesn't automatically mean it'll never happen to you. Do you understand that?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Did the understanding suddenly make you feel all better?"

She looked up. The tears were gone, but so was the formality. She was finally ready to begin our session. I had beaten her and she knew it. For a moment, I acknowledged the respect I saw in her eyes. I had proved myself worthy, so to speak, to be her confidant, her therapist. Well, that was one hurdle cleared. Countless more to go.

"So," I said, "is there anything you want to talk about?" If this approach didn't work, I could always ask her if there was anything she thought would be relevant to her recovery that I should know. That was bound to get some answers.

Fortunately, she was willing to play ball. Finally.

"Today," she began slightly reluctantly, "I had to arrest my partner."

"Why?" She hadn't told me about her partner, though I knew his name. Elliot Stabler. Olivia Benson and Elliot Stabler, the proverbial golden-haired children of the NYPD. I'd done a little digging, wondering why her name sounded so familiar. Nearly every one of my rape patients mentioned her at one point or another.

Four out of five described her with feathery white wings and a halo over her head. Saint Olivia, the salvation of rape victims.

So I'd gone a little deeper on the Internet, coming up with countless pictures of the pair together, and the articles that went with them blared triumphant headlines. 'Detectives Crack Rosewood Murder' flashed a picture of Olivia and Elliot flanking their captain at a press conference, eyes threatening, posture defiant. Olivia was alone in one announcing, 'Poison Producers' Loophole Demolished.' The one I loved the most was one from a year ago. 'Dynamic Duo Hold Best Closure Record for Ninth Year Running'. I had to know, and this was actually relevant, so I asked.

"Olivia, can you tell me about this article?" I handed her the paper.

She took one look at it and a smile broke over her face. Brown eyes shined with embarrassment and pride. "Elliot and I kept the record for the best case closure. We got it the first year we were partners, and we've kept it ever since."

"What about the picture?"

Olivia chuckled, running her eyes up and down their position. "They wanted to make it a big thing, so they had Cragen order us down for a photo shoot. I just about died of humiliation. They wanted us to look…how did they put it? Unprofessional." She traced their arms, clasped and showing off Elliot's muscles. The look on her face was unconditional devotion. "I guess they succeeded," she whispered.

"So why did you have to arrest your partner?" I asked. I'd just seen how much she cared about him, heard from her lips how well they worked together. I had absolutely no idea what he could have done to force the handcuffs around his wrists. If he was anything like her, he just wasn't the type.

A lone shudder rippled through her frame before she said, "He beat up a pedophile."

She said it so blatantly, so matter-of-factly that I knew she wasn't going to be considerate in the least. She was going to give me the gory details about everything I asked, and she wasn't going to worry about how I would react to those gory details. Something, call it a little birdie, told me that she wouldn't be talking like this to someone other than me.

It was good to feel wanted.

"Why did he beat up a pedophile?"

"The pedophile stuck a picture of Elliot's daughter on his pedophilic website."

If she was trying to make me panic, it wasn't working.

"Olivia," I began, "what about this did you want to focus on? Or did you just want to get it off your chest." I knew she had a point behind this, I just wasn't sure what it was.

Breath escaped her lips as she sighed, running a hand through her hair as she did so. Strands fell in her face, framing it, hiding her eyes from me. "He…he wasn't…" she pushed her hair back again, keeping her head down. "He wasn't in…control," she finished.

I thought I could see where she was going with this, but, to be honest, I wasn't sure she knew herself. "And you wanted him to be in control?"

She met my eyes, finally, and told me something I couldn't believe she'd ever even think, much less admit, much less admit to a shrink.

"If he's in control," she whispered, "then I don't need to be."

At my stunned silence, she looked up, probably thinking I was unnerved. Nope. She still had to get it off her chest.

"I'm always the one in control," she told me. "When he uses his locker as a punching bag, I'm the one who cleans up the blood. When he beats up suspects, I'm the one who pulls him off. When his marriage looks like it's starting to go down the drain, I stick my hand in after it and drag it back up. He's the one who can't control his emotions, who sees his kids in every molested child, who gets investigated by IAB for excessive use of force,!" Her breath was coming in shaky gasps, and she leaned forward. She was losing control. And she knew it.

"Why can't I be in control?" she asked. "He's not in control. One of us has to be!"

One thing I knew was that rape victims constantly blamed themselves for what had happened to them. This tended to happen only in female victims. In the rare case of a male rape victim, the masculinity of that victim was questioned. In females, there was no question. They were perfectly assured of their femininity. What they wanted to know was why it had happened to them. Had they done something to warrant this? Had they acted too forward, brash, had they seemed to the outside world like an easy lay? Was that why their rapist had chosen them? Or had they been too timid, too cautious, an easy target? They focused too much on what they had done to provoke such an act of violation and never questioned the rapist's motive. That motive was obvious. He, or sometimes she, had wanted sex and control.

What the victim did was subconsciously make a list of all the things they knew and all the things they didn't. They knew what had happened: rape. They knew the goal: control. They did or didn't know the identity of the rapist, so that could swing either way. They didn't know why they'd been picked. They didn't know what they'd done wrong.

When they didn't know what they'd done wrong, that was what they focused on. If the rapist had obsessed over their long hair, they might cut it. If he'd called her a whore, the victim might wear more conservative clothing.

What Olivia didn't know was how she'd lost control. She had no idea how she, a trained police officer, a special victims detective for ten years, had let herself be put in that position and not be able to get out of it. This session was giving me wonderful insight into this partnership of hers. As far as I could tell, Elliot Stabler was raw power in every aspect: physical, mental, emotional, whatever, and he relied on his partner to keep that power from getting him into trouble. Olivia Benson was the selfless one who made it her first responsibility to make sure her partner was safe. And now, when she really needed him to take control and be her stability, he had no experience in that matter. He had absolutely no idea how to take care of her because she'd never let him before. I was positive that everything would be better if she would relinquish that control that was wedging itself in her wound, keeping her from healing.

The way I imagined it, she and Elliot were alone in a room with no way out. Olivia had the thing she cared about most in the world jammed into her heart, slowly bleeding her out, and Elliot had absolutely no idea. If Olivia asked her partner for help, he would pull the thing out of her heart and she would begin to heal, but the thing in her heart, as soon as it left her, would disintegrate into ashes and she might never get it back.

"Olivia, I'm sure Elliot will take control," I said calmly, "if you tell him you need him to."

After what seemed like ages of begging her with my eyes, she blinked once, put a finger to her necklace, and shook her head.

All she had to do was let go of the thing in her heart, but she was so far refusing to do so.

**___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________**

**So, what did you think? I told you there was going to be more juice, didn't I? Hey, if anyone knows how to legally get rid of a restraining order, let me know! REVIEW!!! You know you want to!**


End file.
